


Test Run

by toxicdumpingground



Category: The Rat Patrol
Genre: Attempted Murder, Bad Flirting, F/M, Intense pining, Pie, Pining, Ranching, Recovery, Returning from war, World War II, farming, female Dietrich, no beta we die like jeeps, prisoners of war, with a compelling backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxicdumpingground/pseuds/toxicdumpingground
Summary: Just returned from war, Sam Troy doesn't expect to find that the war come closer to home than he imagined.
Kudos: 5





	Test Run

It had been over three years since anyone in Buck, Wyoming had seen Sam Troy. Not since he’d been one of the first boys drafted in 1942, and no one could have ever mistaken him for someone else. Eliza Richard had spent the first year pining before getting bored with the routine and sending off her Dear John letter.

He was a soldier, and he probably wasn’t going to make it back...except that he had. 

“Sam?” He was only a few minutes off the bus, his luggage beside him, hat titled to a jaunty angle and his uniform damn near gleaming from the medals and rank bars. “Sam Troy?” He turned, his broad shoulders filling out his jacket perfectly, his eyes hard and focusing on her as quickly as possible. Everything about him looked soldierly, and he didn’t recognize her for a minute. “Eliza Richard,” she said, and his eyes widened with recognition. 

“Ms. Richard,” and boy did that sting. A year of dating, and he’d refused to get married before he’d shipped out. “How are you?” He nodded to her, and he looked around the small town square like he was vaguely shocked. Like he couldn’t believe that he was home. 

“I’m fine, Sam...are you alright?” What did you say to an ex-boyfriend who just returned from war? He hadn’t wanted to make her a widow, and they had both survived the war. 

“I’m fine, Ms. Richard,” he rubbed at his chin. “Just need to get home, that’s all.” he looked around at the stores and the streets of the town. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Eliza adjusted her package in her hand, still eying Sam. A captain...a handsome captain with more medals on his chest than a drum major. “Sam, you.” 

“Don’t be absurd!” A third voice cut through the awkward reunion, and to Eliza’s shock, Sam jerked around his hand, falling to the holster on his side and his eyes sharpening. 

“It’s just one of the kraut prisoners,” Eliza assured him, already guessing that the German accent was making him twitchy. “Don’t worry about it.” But she was visibly forgotten as the door from the general store opened, and the prisoner came out. Having lived in Buck her whole life, Eliza remembered what it had been like when the woman had started living in Buck, wearing her prisoner armband and a haughty attitude. 

“Sam, it’s just.” She tried to reach out to him, but Sam’s attention was on the woman sweeping down the stairs. His eyes are full of disbelief and shock, as well as a certain wariness. 

  
“ _ Dietrich _ ?” 

Captain Dietrich stopped, her eyes turning from the paper in her hand to the man in front of her and then to his hand on his weapon. For a long minute, the soldier and the POW stared at each other, disbelief was heavy in the air, and Eliza glanced between them. They looked like they knew each other. 

“She’s harmless, Sam,” Eliza tried to break the tension. 

“Since when?” The man asked, his voice sharpening. The two kept staring at each other, glowering. 

“I am only a prisoner,  _ Heer Hauptmann _ ,” Dietrich’s voice was just as sharp, and the absolute unbending pride on her face made Eliza want to reach up and smack her. Her! Walking around Buck like she wasn’t some kraut! Like she was anything other than a prisoner! “I could not harm anyone.” A smirk accompanied the soft flutter of eyelashes, and Troy scoffed. Eliza turned to him, smiling and hoping that he’d teach the woman her place. 

“You’re hardly harmless,  _ Frau Hauptmann _ ,” Troy replied, now ignoring Eliza entirely. 

“How do you two know each other?” Eliza asked, furious with the casual way that Dietrich was  _ stealing _ Troy’s attention. As if walking around in slacks and a button-up and a German accent was all you needed to get his attention. It was as if Eliza didn’t exist anymore! She was wearing her best dress; she looked perfect!

“Classified,” they barked at her, still not breaking eye-contact. 

Eliza stared between them, not sure how to reconcile the fact that she was being ignored. She and Sam had nearly married; they’d been steady for years! 

“ _ Captain _ Troy,” there was a swagger in Ditriech’s step as she moved down the steps to the sidewalk. “It has certainly been a while.” 

“I,” Troy looked lost for words, his attention shifting between Dietrich, her armband, and the paper in her hands. “I still owe you a bottle of champagne, Captain.” 

“Oh?” Dietrich rose a thin eyebrow. 

“For,” he waved a hand, and the lack of clarification only prompted a frown and then a slow nod. “Didn’t know where you were….so Moffit dropped it off at your folk's house.” Again she nodded, but her frown was more pronounced. “They’re fine….Your sisters doing fine too.” 

“I’ve heard she married.” 

“Yeah,” Sam seemed to be frozen. “Buy you a drink?” 

“I don’t like American beer,” Dietrich said, but she moved to stand in front of the short man.

“Whiskey,” Sam said, and she nodded. “I’ll buy the first round.” He reached down to his bags and hoisted them up. “Second is on you.” 

“Second is going to be on you, Captain Troy,” she said captain slowly, prompting a faint smile from the man. “I do not know when my backpay is coming, given that my government is all in  _ prison _ .” 

“Alright,” Troy grumbled, and they both headed down the street without giving Eliza even the barest glance. “ _ Fine. _ ” 

#$#$#$#

Buck’s Saloon was nothing like what Sam remembered, someone had taken the time to re-do the bar, add new decorations, and there were fewer drink options. 

“Sam Troy?” Squinting at the man behind the bar, he glanced at Dietrich and saw her face soften slightly. He hadn’t been blind to Eliza’s hateful stare or even her hostility to the woman and didn’t care to see it. He didn’t care to see Eliza either; she was the last person he wanted to see right off the bus, and Dietrich had been the last person he’d expected to see. “Holy hell, is that really you?”

“Yeah,” he straightened under the man’s gaze. Since the end of the last war, Mr. Miller had owned the bar, and given his serious injuries and lack of a right leg, he had avoided the draft. “You doing alright?”

“Sam!” Mr. Miller stumped from behind the bar and seized him into a hug. “I’ll be damned! One of our own off and got himself some railroad tracks! I couldn’t be more impressed! Drinks are on me!” 

“You would not be so generous,” Dietrich cut in, “if you  _ knew _ how well he drinks?”

“What’s this?” Mr. Miller pulled away, gesturing at Dietrich. “You’re not supposed to be here.” 

“I was not officially banned,” Dietrich pointed out, and Sam glanced up at her.

“What did you do?” He asked in German, gratified by the shock on her face. He hadn’t spoken a word of German the first time they’d met, and now he had enough to converse casually. 

“Nothing,” she smirked faintly, and Sam ducked his head to avoid letting her see his grin. The brim of his cap helped, and when he looked up, her smile had ironed out. 

“Uh, huh,” he turned to Mr. Miller. 

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” he promised, and Dietrich scoffed. 

“You speak German?” He was glancing between them. 

“Enough to get by.” 

“You’ve improved.” Dietrich ignored the glances from everyone else in the bar. 

“Danke,  _ Frau Hauptmann _ ,” he slipped his hat off his head and slid into the booth with the best access to the back door and with a line of sight to both. 

“Bitte.” Dietrich joined him, and he tried not to shiver at how little and how much she had changed. She still moved with the grace and pride of a commander. Sliding into the booth and sitting with the same poise she’d had when interrogating him. Her eyes were commanding, and her smirk didn’t fade as a whiskey and a beer were set in front of them. The waiter glanced between them, and Sam felt his hands shake as he reached for his drink. It had been a  _ long _ while since he’d seen his old nemesis, and she was the last person he expected to see when he’d gotten off the bus for home. She was wearing a prisoner’s armband, but given how she moved and talked, even the indoctrination that prisoners got was not enough to squash the sheer Prussian pride. 

Her clothes were familiar, but instead of desert tan...she wore a soft blue button-up, the top button hadn’t been done up, and he was getting a never-before-seen glimpse of her narrow collarbone and long neck. He blinked and focused on his drink. 

They sat in silence for a while until he cleared his throat. “I came across your parents,” he said, and she watched him carefully over the rim of her glass. “Seemed to be doing fine; your dad tore a strip off Lieutenant Commander Bose.” 

“My father does not suffer fools lightly.” 

“No,” Sam agreed, “your house looks fine too. No damage to it at all.” He thought he was saying the right thing, but Dietrich’s expression darkened. 

“Tell me, Troy. Did your Colonel Biggs have to pay for a single drink after I was captured?” 

“That was a while ago,” he said gruffly. “Don’t.” 

“If I recall three assassination attempts and.” 

“Better than a fucking bounty on your head,” Sam snapped, “and a target on your back from every fucking.” 

“You are a soldier,” she barked. 

“So are you!” he replied, and he took a slow drink. “Let’s not...get into that.” 

“I was rather flattered that it took an entire division to capture me,” Dietrich muttered, “it was certainly worth the mocking that followed.” 

“An entire division?” Sam asked. 

“I always found it strange that you were not there.” She tilted her head to the side. 

“Leave,” he replied with a shrug. 

“I thought for sure that they would have used you for bait, Troy. The absence of you and your men did not alert me to the trickery they employed.” 

“Which is probably why they did that.” He sighed. “You would have suspected a trap, wouldn’t you?” Dietrich’s capture had been the final domino in the fall of the Afrika Korps. Their last commander, holding out until the bitter end, even after Berlin had abandoned them. 

“Doubtless,” she mused. “What was the operation called?” 

“Kit,” he said faintly, “Operation Kit.” 

“Operation Kit,” Dietrich leaned back in her seat, looking so much like the cat who had eaten the canary that he smiled. Of course, that’s what she was proud of. 

Finally, he leaned forward. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Shopping,” she replied blandly, and he frowned. 

“You’re just walking around my hometown, shopping. Ms. Richards knows you.” 

“Eliza is a gossip, and Allied High Command could have hired her as an interrogator. Even the military officers who interrogated me could not have compared to her.” 

“I know.” Years of memories of Eliza had faded over war, and the pain of being dumped hadn’t lasted long enough. He’d accepted it at the time, only focusing on surviving but now that he was home, he couldn’t imagine what he’d ever seen her. “What are you doing in Buck?” 

“I was nearly killed in prison,” she said so blandly that Troy nearly choked on his drink. “Many considered my failure in North Africa to be a personal insult, and among other reasons, I was not….fanatic enough for them. I was nearly...killed in my first week.”

_ “Jesus Christ _ .” 

“And when I was in the hospital for a light stabbing.” 

“A stabbing?” He demanded. 

“A light stabbing,” she corrected, “and it was decided that for my own safety, I would be separated from the other prisoners.” 

“Jesus, Dietrich. Are you alright?” 

“An unusual amount of concern given that  _ you _ have  _ shot _ me before.” 

“And you shot me,” he snapped, “ _ and _ you tricked me into thinking I was blind for three days.” 

“I remember an instance of you  _ abducting me _ from my camp.” 

“We needed blood! And you stole my dog tags!” 

“You.” Dietrich’s fiery glower was just as he remembered it, and it faded as she let out a heavy sigh. “What’s done is done.” 

“Yeah,” his anger died faintly, prickling uncomfortably in his chest. “Ma wrote and said she picked up a prisoner to help with the….” Dietrich’s eyebrows rose, and to anyone else, it would have been a neutral expression. To Sam, even the separation and the fact that they were enemies was not enough to stop him. “ _ You _ ?” 

“Me,” she agreed, “I am not giving up my room.” 

“Which?” 

“Yours,” Dietrich looked smug. He was more than a little jealous because he hadn’t slept in his bed for almost three years, and Dietrich had been...Dietrich had been sleeping in  _ his _ bed. He tried not to imagine the captain in his bed...in his sheets...he was thankfully distracted by the next volley. “You are back early.” 

“I was trying to surprise Ma,” he gulped down his drink. 

“You could have written,” she scolded faintly. “You could have avoided a confrontation with Fraulein Richards.” 

“Holy shit.” He gulped down his drink and set the empty glass back on the table. “When are you going back?” 

“They have no intentions of repatriating me anytime soon,” Dietrich’s expression dropped into a frown that meant she was contemplating something. “As I am a woman.” 

“But your folks.” 

“I am aware, but as a person who is also…,” she paused. 

“They want to know where you are.” Troy sighed and rubbed at his forehead.

The silence thickened, and Sam could hear everything Dietrich wasn’t trying to say. Keeping Dietrich in Buck was a way of keeping an eye on someone who had become a living legend. It was easier to claim paperwork problems and priority repatriation. 

“Your mother is well.” Dietrich looked at her drink and sighed. “Doubtless, our previous relationship will be about town in the next ten minutes.”

“Yeah,” he decided he didn’t care. “Is Ma going to shoot me?” 

“No, but I might,” she said mildly, and Sam smiled. 

“For old time’s sake?” 

“Of course,” she demurred, and Sam barked out a laugh as he tried to imagine any version of Captain Dietrich being sweet or demure. 

“Does Ma know that you know me? She?” 

“She was made aware,” Dietrich looked vaguely uncomfortable. He had a feeling that the information hadn’t been freely given. Still, she looked healthy and alive, so Ma must not have given her too much trouble. “Tell me, Troy...how are your men?” 

“Hitch married an Italian resistance fighter; he’s not coming home soon.” It had been a hell of a wedding in the middle of a bombed-out church with an entire town crowding into the rubble-filled building. 

“He was disowned for enlisting, correct?” 

“Yeah, Tully went home and got married just about the same day. And Jack is due here...in a day.” 

“Moffit?” She paused. “He will be here?” 

“Planning on staying a while...he said he can’t stay in England.” 

“No,” she looked down at the table. “I can’t imagine that he cannot.” 

They sat in silence a little while longer, and eventually, Dietrich spoke up again. “I would have considered that the State Department would parade you around.”

“They asked.” Given that he wasn’t up in front of cameras and plastered across military recruiting posters, something else must have happened. “Had too much of a record.” 

“Truly?” 

“Too messy...too many courts-martial...too.” 

“I could have explained this,” she pulled a packet of cigarettes from her shirt pocket, and slipping one into her mouth, she lit it. “You only follow orders when it  _ suits _ you.” 

“I could follow orders,” but it was pointless denying it. Dietrich blew smoke his direction, raising a thin eyebrow. 

“Truly?” 

“Didn’t want to...make it pretty, give the whole war a romantic tilt.”

“Ah, and Americans care so much for image.” She sighed and leaned back. 

“Yeah,” he agreed and watched the woman carefully. “Are you alright?” He watched her mouth spasm slightly, not a frown and not a smile, and he was slammed back into the memory of finding her pinned beneath the overturned vehicle in the middle of the sandstorm.

She wasn’t alright, but at least she was alive. 

“I am well,” because even if she wasn’t fine, she would never admit to it. 

“Good,” he swallowed hard, his fingers itching for a cigarette, but he didn’t dare break eye contact to reach for one. 

“Come,” she said finally, stubbing out the cigarette. 

“Leave so soon?” 

“Would you care to explain to your mother that you delayed your return to drink with an enemy?” 

“I guess not.” He wondered if he ought to explain that she wasn’t the enemy anymore. Sliding out of the booth and re-gathering his bags, they emerged into the sunlight, only slightly worse for wear. Buck looked...different. It looked strange as he compared it to his memories and then to his most recent experiences in Europe. 

Clean, untouched, and even a little too perfect. 

“Troy?” A slight touch to his shoulder and Dietrich’s voice broke him out of his slight reverie. 

“It’s fine,” he sighed, “where’d you park the truck?” 

“Behind the general store,” she responded, not moving to help him with his bags. 

The truck was the same damn truck he’d driven to the draft board. The same one his mother had driven him to the train station in. A beat-up green pick-up truck from 1935. He tried to ignore the strange feeling in his gut at the sight of Dietrich at the driver seat, looking perfectly at home as she started up the engine. 

“Is that my shirt?” He asked suddenly, identifying the blue shirt that Dietrich was wearing. 

“Ja,” she pulled out of town, and he pulled off his hat and set it on his knee. “Your pants are too short for me.” 

“What are you doing wearing my clothes?”

“Working, Troy,” she frowned at him, the landscape whizzing past.

“Dietrich,” he clung to the door, bracing himself on instinct.“You don’t have to drive like you’ve got a goddamn halftrack on your tail.” 

“Of course,” she said, speeding up. “You never had to  _ suffer _ my driving.” 

“Tully is better.” 

“Eh,” his stomach swooped as she took a turn twice the posted limit and pulled out of the turn with the finesse of a professional driver...which she was. “Your mother seems to enjoy my driving.” 

“God.” at least there weren’t bomb craters out in the roads. 

The familiar scenery slowed down as they came to the entrance of the ranch—the mailbox to the right of the wooden signpost. The only thing that had changed was the weeds, having grown over the fencing and posts until there was a screen of green leaves and vines. He stared as the truck rumbled across the gravel, feeling something unpleasant slip around in his chest. 

“Welcome Home, Troy.” There was a note of bitterness in Dietrich’s voice, and he grimaced slightly as the truck advanced over the long drive. It was long, but not as long as it had been at the Dietrich estate. He wondered if she imagined her home whenever she took this drive. Remembering the trees lining the drive, some of the larger ones taken for firewood in the last year of the war, if she remembered the gardens that were beautiful even in the middle of the total defeat and weighed down with snow. As the ranch house came into view, he closed his eyes and opened them to see the red-brick estate laid over it. 

“We’ll get you home soon enough, Dietrich.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said and pulled to a stop. The front door opened, and Sam’s heart leaped in his chest to see his mother looking a few years older and a little more worn. 

“CAP!” The woman bellowed, drying her hands on her apron. “I could see the dust you were stirring up! You drivin’ like a maniac?” Bright blue eyes fell on Sam as he opened the door. 

“Ma,” he waved, sticking the hat on his head. “Howdy.” 

“Sam?” She staggered to the side of the front porch, and he rushed up to see if she needed help, only for her to jump the steps to the ground and seize him in arms that were both weaker and stronger than he remembered. Mrs. Phryne Troy was a good foot taller than her son and more than capable of holding him to her chest as she sobbed and scolded him all at once. Her accent had faded in the last few years, and he didn’t understand half of what she was saying, and he felt his own eyes filling with tears as he clung to the worn-out shirt and the shoulders that trembled beneath it. 

“You’re back!” She cried, kissing his forehead. “You’re back, and you’re alive! Have you seen Dan? Are you hungry? Did you get to see?” She paused and glanced over at the truck to see that Dietrich had excused herself and vanished. “You’re home early?” 

“I thought that I’d surprise you,” he admitted, hating how his eyes pricked and his throat began to close up. “Ma...I.” What could he say? What did he want to say? “I missed you.” 

“Oh,  _ God _ , Sam.” She held him close, and his eyes were suspiciously wet. “I missed you so much! Why’d it take you so long to come home?” 

“Sorry,” he didn’t move to extract himself from her grasp. “I’m sorry, Ma.” The last thing he wanted to do was cause his mother any more grief. “I brought your hat back.” 

“My hat?” She swept the cap off his head and admired the much-abused cover. “Sam….I think this is your hat now.” 

“Really?” He took a step back and grinned as she set it back on his head. 

“You’re my boy,” she replied, scrubbing out her eyes. “And that hat always brings us home. Brought me home from the Great War, brought your Pa back from the force, and now you.” It’s good luck.

“Put a target on my back after a while,” he told her, picking his bags up and advancing up the stairs to his childhood home. 

“I heard,” a half-formed instinct that he thought he’d forgotten guided him toward his room. Or what had been his room. The whole house smelled and felt different, but the difference was even more stark when he opened his door. 

The blankets had been replaced a while ago, tucked in with military precision was a beautiful new quilt. A radio now rested where he’d used to keep a bible for show, and there was a uniform peeking out of the closet, a dress uniform he’d seen Dietrich wear exactly twice. 

“ _ Shit _ ,” he cursed, inhaling an unfamiliar scent of work, smoke, and the faintest hint of modest soap. 

“Sam!” His mother laughed. “If I’d known you were coming, I’da set her up in the attic or in Dan’s room.” 

“The beds there are too small,” he said, remembering the day they’d made those beds. Sam had been begging his father for a larger bed, swearing that he’d grow into it properly and be just as tall as his mother. Dan had been more realistic and had accepted a smaller bed. “Sorry, don’t tell her I did that. She doesn’t like me in her space.” 

“I guess it’s better than breaking into her tent,” his mother said, and Sam shot her a glance as he crossed the living room toward the door, which revealed the staircase to the small attic. Part of the attic had been re-furnished into a small room, a window at the end to reveal the swathes of ranch-land and the distant pond. It was mainly used for guests and family, and Sam sat on the bed with a sigh. “I worked on getting this up. She’s not the only one we’ve got on the farm; the others are out in the little hostel.” 

“More prisoners?” 

“Oh, sure. Good boys too, good with the animals and the land, and with most of the boys off to war, I needed the help.” 

“Huh,” he glanced out the window and then at the pillow. The pillowcase was embroidered with flowers and traced a finger along the frivolous colors and design. 

“Cap keeps them in line; she’s great to have around too. I swear she’s got ranching in her blood too.” 

“Her family has a pretty big estate, lots of servants and hands to manage there.” 

“Servants? How did you know?” 

“I visited her folks before I got shipped home.” God, he wanted to forget the war and the pain it brought. He wanted to wipe the images of bombed-out cities and broken child-soldiers from his mind. Standing at the bus stop, he could almost pretend that he could slide back into a rancher's routine...and then Dietrich had shown up. 

“You ask for her hand?” 

“Ma!” He glowered at his mother, and she laughed, bright, bold, and carefree. “No, I had to drop off the champagne.” 

“Champagne? Did you bring any for me? I haven’t had a good champagne since we left Paris in 1918.” 

“Looks a lot different now. I owed her a bottle.” 

“How the hell did you end up owing her a bottle of champagne?”

“That’s classified.” He tried and leaned away when she swatted his shoulder.

“Keeping secrets from your mother already?” 

“Trust me,” he settled the hat on the bedpost, “you don’t want to know what happened.” 

“Alright, alright. What do you want for supper? I’m keen to make something special. I can make your favorite; we’ve got.” 

“It’s alright, Ma. You don’t have to go through all that work.” 

“Sam! I’m going to make something special, and we’re going to celebrate! My oldest is home from war with all of his fingers and toes! I’m going to  _ sing _ ! I’m going to tell everyone!” 

Sam grinned faintly as she clapped her hands together. 

“I’ll call up all the neighbors, and they’ll bring everyone and then.” 

“Ma, Ma,” he stood, reaching out to grab her hands.

“Sam?” Her smile vanished in an instant. “Of course, we’ll make it quiet. Hell, we’ve even stopped using fireworks. NO need to make a fuss, but it’s not every day that my hero son comes back from war. Didn’t I tell you what happened when I got home from the Great War?” 

“All of Melbourne threw a party.” He recited, “you drank enough to kill a horse, stole a cab, and ended up working as a constable to avoid jail time until Pa showed up.” 

“Right, see.” She paused to stare at him. “We’ll keep quiet….I’ll make some pie.” 

“You got enough sugar for that?” 

“We’ve got plenty of honey. I started some beekeeping two years ago, and it turned out great.” 

“Beekeeping?” 

“Needed sweet stuff,” she explained with a shrug. “The ration books weren’t cutting it. You should see the McNabs farm; they started on sugar beets.”

“That’s pretty clever,” he said quietly, and the silence that descended was a special sort of awkward that Troy hadn’t dealt with a while. 

“You settle in,” she ordered. “I’ll go get started.” 

“I can help,” he said. 

“You just got back! You should be relaxing! A little r and r before I have you mucking out the stall and working on digging me a new pond.” 

“I’ll go dig a pond,” he said automatically, “easier than digging a latrine.” 

“Oh, that’s true.” She laughed and moved out of the room. “Alright, Sam. You’re going to love what we’ve done with the place.” 

“Am I?” Because it didn’t look too much different from what he remembered. There were unfamiliar slippers by the door, a different set of coats hanging on the front coat rack, and he could see small imprints of his mother and unfamiliar imprints that could only belong to Dietrich. He perused the living room, catching the details he might not have noticed before the war. Byron stamped a book of poems with the library’s stamp sat on the coffee table next to a packet of papers covered in Arabic. “Translating?” 

“She gots bored,” Ma said, coming up behind him and crossing her arms. “She said that translating poems is a challenge.” 

“Huh,” he moved the papers, seeing the poems in both French and German. Impressed, he moved them back. “What happened to Grandpa’s pillow?” 

“I moved that to my room.” 

“Huh,” he paused and straightened to see a new picture hanging on the wall just over the upright piano. It was him, beautifully sketched out in pencil with near-photographic detail. The slouch cap perched on his head with a smile that he’d only ever directed at his boys. “That’s new.” 

“Again, courtesy of Dietrich. She wasn’t very mobile when she first got here. I have a whole sketchbook.” 

“Huh, I got home from the war. I didn’t think the war would move in.” 

“Alright, enough about her then.” The slap on his back distracted him, and he let himself be guided to the kitchen. “How was London? I haven’t been in ages, and I can’t believe how much I miss it. What’s it look like?” 

“Bombed out,” he said shortly. 

“Was it as bad as the last time?” 

“I don’t know; we got a little place to bunk in. Some folks went north and rented out their house to us. It was nice….had a little garden and everything.” 

“You ran your missions from it?”

“Ma?” He exclaimed. 

“I was in war too, Sam! I know that if you became a commando that they’d give you bigger missions. Don’t try to pull one over on me.” 

“You know, half the tricks I used against the captain are ones I had to use to sneak around you.” He said, his voice tinged with annoyance, and to his surprise, his mother burst in laughter. “What?” 

“That’s the same damn thing I told Cap. Alright, alright. Come on to the kitchen, and I’ll make coffee.”

“Have we got any tea?” 

“Tea?” His mother paused, “tea?” 

“Moffit weaned me off coffee; we used to trade it for information and rooms,” he grimaced. “It’s rationed in England, but it got us pretty far in Germany.” A Luftwaffe sergeant's wife had traded information on the camp for her husband's life and a visit from Moffit for their youngest child’s sprained foot. 

“I have  _ some _ tea, but it’s all from Turkey.”

Same squinted at the tin labeled in a familiar and unfamiliar language. Popping the top off, he took a sniff at the strong leaves and blinked. It was strong and the stuff he hadn’t had since they’d packed up their kits in North Africa. 

“Damn, this is the good stuff. Where’d you get it?” 

“I don’t know. Cap sent out a bunch of letters in Arabic, got the MP’s down on her head, and a few months later, tea started showing up. She said someone owed her a favor because they also sent some Turkish delight and some baklava.” 

He set the tin back, giving a low whistle and trying to avoid salivating over the idea off a plate of Turkish delight and baklava. “Let’s just have coffee.” 

“No tea?” 

“Nah.” 

“Why do I feel like there’s a story there?” 

“There is.” 

His mother’s squinty-eyed glare reminded him sharply of the time’s he’d withstood her interrogation into his various pranks and misdeeds. Just as he had then, he looked her right in the eyes and smiled. 

“You’ve gotten better.” She said after a long moment. 

“I’ve had practice.” 

“Hmph, alright, Sammy.” 

_ “Ma _ ,” he couldn’t help but blush. “Don’t call me that.” he shot a glance around, half-afraid that Dietrich would pop out around the corner, smoking a cigarette and smirking at him. 

“You’re my boy,” she swept down to kiss his cheek. “I get to call you whatever I like. This time he leaned into it, accepting the affection with a sigh. When he closed his eyes, he could see his mother leaning over his father, kissing his forehead and smiling at him. “Sam?” 

“I was just thinking,” his throat felt tight as familiar grief reared its head, clawing up the back of his neck. “About how much I missed Pops.” 

“Sam, he’d be so damn proud of you,” he glanced up at his mother. “He’d be devastated that you’d gone off to war and so proud that you came home in one piece.” She hugged him close, her arms trembling. “I’m so damn proud of you. You and Dan both.” 


End file.
